Intoxicated
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock needs to win Molly over. Maybe a few drinks will help. Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes sat in his seat at the annual New Scotland Yard charity dinner dance nursing a whiskey and ginger ale and, though he was loathe to admit that he had one, an almost broken heart. Almost broken because, even as he could feel it cracking he was, at the same time, using his not unimpressive brain to figure out a way of putting it back together. He quietly surveyed the scene while nursing his drink. Mary Watson, his best friend's pregnant wife, was on his right, sipping a plain soda and looking as miserable as he was. She was in her final trimester and had remarked earlier that she looked like a whale as she attempted a fox trot. Sherlock's remark that that was still within the mammalian family did nothing to improve her mood. She almost snarled at him as she made one of her multiple trips to the ladies' room. Her husband, John Watson, was, on the other hand, well-lubricated and jovial. Easy to see who was driving home tonight. The seat to his left was empty, having been occupied at one time by his plus one for the evening, his landlady Mrs. Martha Hudson. The elderly woman, a former exotic dancer, was currently tearing up the dance floor with a rather attractive older gentleman. Sherlock hoped the poor man knew what he was getting into.

But the sight causing his current cardiac problems, the sight from which he could only occasionally drag his eyes, wasn't at his table, but across the dance floor. For there sat Dr. Molly Hooper, HIS pathologist, sitting comfortably at a table surrounded by members of Scotland Yard's finest, and not-so-finest if you counted Sgt. Sally Donovan. But the most irksome element was that DI Greg Lestrade was sitting next to her, too closely, with his arm draped over the back of her chair. Occasionally, Lestrade would turn to look across the floor at Sherlock, while Molly deliberately avoided any eye contact. Sherlock swore that on at least one occasion the inspector winked!

Molly was angry at him, angrier than she had ever been before. He didn't blame her. He had broken his many promises not to return to the drug habits of his past. But he had done so, if only for a case. He had seen the look of hurt on her face, the tears coming to her eyes, just before she had slapped him. He then made some nasty remark about her broken engagement, more to see that look of hurt, which he couldn't really bear, replaced by a look of anger. But he had overplayed his hand. She hadn't really looked at him, or spoken to him, in the same way since the incident. She tolerated him, she worked with him, but something was missing. Her smile. When she smiled, a real smile and not just a passing social nicety, her dimples showed on her lovely cheeks. Sherlock was looking at those dimples now from across the room, and knew they were not for him. He took another sip and formulated a plan.

The affair was beginning to wind down, people saying their goodbyes and making for the exit. Mrs. Hudson had finally returned to her seat, and looked with concern toward her nominal escort. Sherlock was swaying almost imperceptively in his chair. "Sherlock, dear, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mrs….. Hudson. Why do you ask?'

"No reason," she said as she studied his eyes, which seemed slightly out of focus. "Are you quit sure, dear?"

"I am not a deer! And I am quite sure!"

"Well then, if you're quite alright on your own, Charles and I," she continued, indicating the gentleman standing behind her, "Well, Charles and I will be off to continue our dancing at another venue."

Sherlock lifted his glass as if to toast the couple, and almost shouted, "Be careful there, Charlie, she's a real wildcat." Mrs. Hudson made a "tsk tsk " sound as she grabbed her companion's hand and led him to the door, toddling along on heels seemingly too high for her elderly legs. The fact that she pulled it off admirably spoke highly of the experience provided by her previous occupation.

It was now Mary Watson's turn to be concerned. She looked from her husband to Sherlock and back again, wondering how she was going to wrangle two inebriated men into the car. John was not so much drunk as "over sociable", laughing too loudly and trying to engage everyone in conversation, whether they wanted to be so engaged or not. Sherlock, however, was the exact opposite, sitting morosely in his chair, gazing across the dance floor, and refusing to move. Seeing her problem, Greg Lestrade made his way to their table and asked, with a small laugh, "Need some help, Mary?"

"Thanks, Greg," Mary replied appreciatively. She then nodded toward Sherlock, and whispered, "I don't think he's taken his eyes off her the entire evening."

"He bloody well does when he glares at me!" Greg told her as he took her aside. "I thought if I brought her here tonight, made a little show of it, maybe he'd come to his senses and show a little humanity. Get jealous. But instead, he just sat there, drinking, staring, and glaring."

"Did Molly say anything?"

"Not a word. But every once in a while I'd catch her looking over at him, and looking kind of expectant. Molly's not stupid. I think she suspected all along that I had invited her as a roundabout way of getting her and his nibs together, but she sure as hell is not going to make the first move. I'm beginning to worry about them."

Molly stayed glued to her seat as Greg helped Mary get the two partygoers to her car. Sherlock did not take kindly to his assistance, as his remarks soon made evident.

"Traitor!", Sherlock snarled.

"Easy, mate." Greg replied calmly.

"Just what do you think you're doing with MY pathologist?!"

"Just showing her a good time." Greg winked.

"Show her anything else, and you won't have anything to show, if you show it to her, I'll show you, you show off…" Somewhere along the line Sherlock's train of thought seemed to derail. "Wait a minute, you're married, aren't you...you show-off?'

"Not this week, mate," Greg grimaced at the thought of his on-again off-again marriage.

Lestrade then poured him into the back seat of Mary's car and waved as she drove off to deposit him at Baker Street.

Sometime later, Sherlock was in his flat contemplating his next move. He fished his mobile out of his suit pocket and started to text.

I LOVE YOU - SHERLOCK

THAT'S NICE DEAR. GO TO BED - MRS H

WHY DON'T YOU JOIN ME? - SHERLOCK

SHERLOCK, DEAR, JUST HOW DRUNK ARE YOU? - MRS H

MRS H WHY HAVE YOU STOLEN MOLLY'S PHONE ?- SHERLOCK

? - MRS H

I AM REPORTING YOU TO THE AUTHORITIES! - SHERLOCK

This might have upset Mrs. Hudson if she hadn't currently been canoodling with "Charlie", otherwise known as recently retired Chief Superintendent Charles Winston Smith, late of Scotland Yard. Martha Hudson simply ran her thumbs over her keyboard, sent a text to Mary Watson, turned off her phone, and went back to canoodling.

MARY, I HATE TO TELL YOU AND JOHN THIS, BUT I BELIEVE THAT SHERLOCK MAY BE ABOUT TO CAUSE SOME TROUBLE - MRS H

Text messages, some making no sense at all, were now flying willy nilly.

GREG, I WISH TO REPORT A THEFT - SHERLOCK

I HAVE NOT STOLEN MOLLY. AND I KNOW YOU MUST BE DRUNK BECAUSE YOU ACTUALLY REMEMBERED MY NAME - G LESTRADE

NOT MOLLY, YOU GIT. MRS HUDSON HAS STOLEN MOLLY'S MOBILE. I WANT HER PERSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW! - SHERLOCK

DON'T YOU MEAN PROSECUTED? - G LESTRADE

PERSECUTED, PROSECUTED. EITHER WILL DO! AND UNHAND MY PATHOLOGIST! - SHERLOCK

MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO, I HAVEN'T "HANDED" YOUR PATHOLOGIST. GET SOME SLEEP SHERLOCK - G LESTRADE

Mary, now, contributed to the texting traffic.

SHERLOCK WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU UP TO? - MARY

TRYING TO TELL THE WOMAN I LOVE THAT SHE IS THE WOMAN I LOVE, BUT SOME OVER-SEXED ANTIQUATED FORMER POLE DANCER HAS STOLEN HER MOBILE! - SHERLOCK

POLE DANCER? - MARY

EXOTIC DANCER, SNAKE IN THE GRASS, HARRIDAN, DRUG LORD'S WIDOW! - SHERLOCK

Recognizing the rather unflattering description as the one and only Mrs. Hudson, Mary then inquired,

WHY WOULD MRS H DO THAT? - MARY

I DON'T KNOW! MAYBE I SHOULD ASK HER? - SHERLOCK

Molly then received her first text of the evening.

WHY WOULD YOU STEAL SOMEONE'S MOBILE, YOU EVIL OLD HARRIDAN? - SHERLOCK

Molly, needless to say, was baffled.

John, sobering up rather quickly, began to grasp the situation, with Mary's help, and immediately texted his best friend.

SHERLOCK DRINK SOME COFFEE, TAKE A COLD SHOWER, AND STOP WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING! NOW! - JOHN

I'M MERELY FIGHTING CRIME. ISN'T THAT WHAT WE DO? - SHERLOCK

I'M ON MY WAY! - JOHN

Mrs. Hudson, feeling guilty for having abandoned her old friends to "socialize" with her new friend, now turned on her mobile and got in touch with Molly.

"I'm afraid Sherlock is having a rather bad night, dear."

"What's he done?"

"Well, it started with a rather strange text. He said he loved me."

"Yes, I can see where you might think that was unusual…"

"It gets worse, luv. When I told him to go to bed, he invited me to join him!"

Molly tried to suppress a giggle. "Well, yes, that is a bit strange…"

"Now, he's threatening to have me arrested for stealing your mobile!"

"Oh...OH!"

"I'm getting really worried. I don't like to ask, but could you go see him?"

When Molly acquiesced, Mrs. Hudson return to her companion, only to find him deeply involved in a conversation of his own.

"Greg, dear boy, my friend is very concerned. Could you do something to straighten this out. He's been accusing her of theft. And he is your friend, after all!"

Lestrade pocketed his mobile, and muttered to himself, "You bloody prat, now you've gone and disturbed old Ironfist Charlie on the first night he's had female companionship in ages. You'll pay for this." And he headed off to Baker Street.

By some freak of nature, or some perverted plan of the Almighty, four people arrived at 221B Baker Street within thirty seconds of each other. Rolling their eyes heavenward, they trudged up the staircase in varying states of annoyance, only to find the world's only consulting detective curled up on his couch in a fetal position, an almost empty bottle of Scotch clutched in his hand.

"Have you been drinking, Sherlock?" asked DI Greg Lestrade.

"Brilliant deduction. Have you ever considered becoming a detective?" Sherlock snorted derisively.

"Bloody git!"

Mary then tried another approach. "Have you finished with the fun and games for the night, you insufferable twit!"

But Sherlock still lay there, facing the back of the couch, trying to ignore them all.

"I lived with this for years!" John put in. "I need some aspirin. Anybody got aspirin?" When no one answered he headed for the medicine cabinet, saying over his shoulder, "Next he'll want someone to rub his head and talk to him, the bloody git!"

"I want my Molly. But Mrs. Hudson has stolen her mobile and I can't reach her. Molly would know what to do. She always knows what to do." And then he sighed. A long, heavy sigh full of suffering and remorse. All eyes turned to Molly, who gave a surrendering sigh of her own, moved to the couch, and positioning herself with Sherlock's head on her lap, proceeded to run her fingers through his curls, and urge him in a calming voice to go to sleep. The effect was almost miraculous. Sherlock immediately settled down, burrowed his head into her lap, and, still clutching the bottle of Scotch, wrapped his free arm around her waist and dozed off. Molly looked up at the other, and whispered, "Go on, get out of here. I'll handle him. Go get some sleep!"

It wasn't long after the others had left when Sherlock began to stir. He had settled down, but still seemed a trifle shaken and, now, confused.

"You're going to need to drink some water, and take some aspirin. I certainly don't envy you your condition in the morning." Molly tried to sound stern, but looking down at his lovely messy curls and his beautiful eyes, she couldn't bring herself to be too mean. She pushed herself up from the couch, heading for his kitchen to make some strong coffee. She heard Sherlock stirring, and moaning, in the other room.

"I need to take a cold shower," he said as he removed his shoes and his suit coat. He then rose unsteadily from the couch, and equally unsteadily, made his way to the bathroom. The coffee was ready and waiting when it occurred to Molly that he had been in the shower for an inordinately long time. Molly knocked at the bathroom door with some small amount of trepidation. She certainly wasn't going to burst in on him in the shower. But as her knocks grew louder, then became shouts, she was becoming more and more concerned. What if he had passed out? Or fallen? He could have injured himself! She shoved the door open, and was greeted with the sight of a fully clothed Sherlock standing, seemingly unconscious, as the water cascaded over him. She tried to turn off the water, but his body was in the way. When she tried to move him, he seemed to regain some semblance of consciousness, grabbing her arm and pulling her under the shower with him. "Molly, my Molly! Lovely Molly", he muttered as he pulled her against his chest.

She looked up at him, speaking his name, trying to get him to concentrate. She had the briefest thought that his eyes seemed remarkably clear as his brought his lips down to cover hers. All in all, she thought to herself, that it was the best kiss ever, drunk or not. He tasted of mint and cigarettes. He was delicious. She was, in fact, about to get lost in this marvelous kiss when something occurred to her and, removing her arms from around his neck, she pushed herself away from his chest, and shouted "You bastard!"

"Really, Molly, my parents were long married by the time of my birth. There may be some question regarding Mycroft, however, but we don't usually talk about that."

"You're not drunk! There is not a hint of alcohol on your breath!"

"Of course not. You know I hate to drink. I don't handle my liquor well, I've been told."

"Could you please turn off the damned shower. I'm freezing!"

"Really? I thought you were beginning to warm up a bit there!"

Sherlock reached behind his back and turned off the shower.

"Sherlock, I'm drenched. Look at me…"

"I am. You look wonderful!"

"I look like a drowned rat!"

"I like rats. They're much more intelligent than they're given credit for, you know."

"Sherlock, I'm angry. And I'm wet! And cold!"

"We should get you out of those wet clothes."

"That will take care of the wet and cold parts. But I'm still going to be angry!"

"What have you got to be angry about? Your clothes will dry. I've just ruined a perfectly good suit!"

He folded his arms around her, and she didn't object. When she smiled at him, he noticed that her dimples had returned, and he, at least, was feeling warmer already. "Let's get you into something warm and dry, Molly Hooper."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Sherlock Holmes?"

"I bloody well hope so!" And the consulting detective picked up his pathologist and carried her dripping and giggling into his warm and dry bedroom.


End file.
